Date: Sun, 13 Nov 2005 23:21:01 -0600
From: Timothy Stillman
Subject: Winter Love
"Winter Love"
by
Tim Stillman
Mom said a lot of things the first time she found out. It was
Christmas or two weeks away, and she was lonely a lot now
she divorced dad, and anyway, she always knew how
important physical contact was. We were a family that
touched and hugged a lot. But we children had been
touching and hugging a lot lately, for other reasons than we
were family.
Better than words. Even when the words are sincere.
Which they always were, with her. But when she found me
and Christopher and Marge in Marge's bedroom, us naked
and fooling around; our betrayal of her was in her eyes. Not
ugly tears. Just sadness that Dad hadn't been gone for more
than almost a year, and here was her world splitting into
splinters, and us being perverts and all. Mom was still young
and looked younger still. She thought, when she told us
later on, that her kids had only each other and didn't need
her at all, and the fact we had gone to each other, me, Tim,
age 12; Christopher, age 10; Marge, age 14; well we had
gravitated toward Marge and she supposed we considered
her a failure.
But we didn't, and we felt sad when she looked at us for a
long moment, naked and fooling around a moment before,
but now naked and staring at her staring at us; all of us in
shock. She didn't say a word. But her eyes hurt. And she
tried to take it in, accept it, and just let us know she was
there to talk to if we wanted. But not this. She could not
talk about this. So she gently shut the door, having turned
her back on us as Dad had turned his back on her and left
us, him first, and now her. And we couldn't let that happen.
We loved our mom. We were sad she was so joyless all the
time. It hadn't been like that before. We had been talkers
and jokers and laughers and kids and parents and getting
away with stuff and not and being real and being alive, not
like it had been for so long.
We had been wrestling around on Marge's bed, and playing
with her and she had been rubbing our hard ons which
weren't hard anymore; her hands still on our penises, a
finger stroking mine, forgotten, Marge thinking, and we
knew this was real; this was not a game; they could take
mom away for this. We were ashamed. When before, we
had been giggling and fingering and prodding and poking
and licking and touching and pinching and examining each
other so very closely, and it was right as could be; now it
was wrong as could be. Mom would want to talk to Dad.
Ask him what she should do. But there was no Dad. No
child support. She had two jobs and here we had
disappointed her by flashing our nakedness right in her face,
which we hadn't meant to do; unless that door was
unlocked when we thought it locked, for a reason.
Christopher began slowly to dress. He put on his briefs. I
watched his wiggle worm get caught up in his BVDs.
Neither of us looked at each other. Marge had her arms
crossed over her beginning to bud breasts and her legs were
closed together; she wanting another hand to cover her
pubic hair. She got off the bed, turned her back to us, there
would be much of this if we didn't stop it and soon, and put
on her panties, bending over as we didn't look at her butt
which was soft and fragile and beautiful, and then she put
on her jeans and shirt and shoes. I dressed during this time.
And we sat on the bed, feeling pretty stupid.. fully clothed,
feeling more naked than we had been when we were naked,
and Mom looking right at us. That image burned into our
retinas forever.
"Whadda we do?" Christopher asked in his little boy voice,
his head on my shoulder. Sucking his thumb.
"I guess we apologize." I said. How do you apologize for
such a thing? The sex had been our idea in the same time.
No one of us had suggested it. We had been growing
toward it. We had been touching each other, showering
together sometimes two and sometimes the three of us, we
looked and saw and tested and approved, and Christopher's
eyes were blue, and Marge had this sweet somewhat goofy
solemn expression when she was trying to be so very
serious and made us laugh, made her laugh too, our
laughing at that, and sometimes we would meet in Marge's
bedroom and feel each other up, and fill each other with
kisses like Marge made with her boyfriends which made us
jealous but she said we were better kissers than they. And
sometimes she would come to our room, and sit on the
bottom bunk and stroke me through my pajamas, and
sometimes she would reach up to Christopher and he would
be holding his hand down to her as he rubbed himself and
she rubbed me and I pinched delicately her titties.
But that was all, and today we had been readying ourselves
to actually fucking each other. We thought being sucked
first was great and then we could fuck, and though Marge
did not have that experience with her boyfriends, they told
her about it, and she had seen movies with them about it and
stuff, so she was the grand expert at all of this at large. And
then Mom came in. And I said to my bro and sis, "let's tell
her she need not worry. We did not do anything wrong.
And neither did she. Agreed?" And they nodded their heads
as we began our herky jerky slow stumble walk, like
suddenly sentient globs of Silly Putty, to find her and try to
tell her what we didn't know to tell her in the first place.
She was in the living room. We heard the TV and went
directly there, and she was sitting on the couch, eyes red,
not crying though, pretending to be caught up in a soap.
"Mom," I began...waiting for Christopher and especially
Marge to back me up and finish a sentence that had not
finish. "Mom," Christopher (named for Christopher Robin,
soft and smooth, and sweet faced and made of sugar and
tender smile and wiry filament and narrow long arms and
legs; he should have been carrying his Pooh bear with him;
he used to; till he got too old for it.) And then he paused
and his reedy high voice stopped hesitantly...and finally
finally Marge said, coming to stand directly in front of
Mom, while we two cowards remained behind the couch,
her back to us..."Come here, Christopher," and I nudged the
very scared little boy round the couch, interested to see
what this was about, was I.
Margie took Christopher by his boney shoulders, stood with
him in front of "As The World Turns," waited until Mom
could not not look and had to, to satisfy curiosity, and there
her eyes were, so Marge bent down, for she was taller than
we, and kissed him firmly on the mouth and he kissed her
back, as Marge took a deep breath, laving on Chris' tongue,
and put her hand to the crotch of his jeans and felt around
there. As his face flushed red, and his hands rubbed Marge's
groin.. Sexy and fast.
Mom jumped a bit. Her head was slightly cocked to the
right. The way it did when she was contemplating.
Marge saw this out of the edge of her eye, looked at her,
then at me and nodded me round the couch like
Christopher. I was pretty scared. Not knowing why really.
Not knowing either why I was pretty excited.
Marge let go of Christopher and then French kissed me. She
never had kissed me like that before. My penis rose, before
becoming aware of Mom right there, and I stuck my tongue
in Marge's mouth too and it was warm as our tongues wetly
tipped at each other. And I held my sister to me so tightly.
Marge did it all so gentle like. So tender like. There was
love in her mouth and in her hands and in her graceful body
that was like a mer girl, much better than her name of
Marge, she deserving quite a bit more, and then Marge was
holding both of us tightly to her, and she with very
experienced fingers, unzipping us, and pulling our penises
free, which were so small, all of us including Mom
beginning to giggle and not that uncomfortably; we were
letting each other in on our secrets, and it was not as
awkward now; mostly it was fun; remember, this was a
touchy feely family, so we were already part way there, and
now with Mom watching after all, we were all really sexed
up. Our penises got hard.
Remember this too: Mom looked more like our older sister
than our Mom.
. Marge arranged, bad word, too mechanical, too machine
like; she was like a cool clear pool of water in which we
were all swimming on a golden summers' day, so Marge
coaxed us to our mother and gracefully conveyed her desire,
Marge did, to bend over Mom and to hold her and to love
her and to cuddle with her, our penises outside our jeans,
warm by the space heater, and us stroking our hard ons, and
Marge getting off her blouse as Mom held us and put our
faces to hers, and smelled the freshness of childhood, as we
knew she had forgiven us, and I had the idea of Marge's
effortless delicate tableau to extend past this night.
I looked up as Chris and I were each reaching for, our jeans
now we had pulled down round our ankles, across Mom's
lap, each other's penis, as Marge had taken off her shirt, and
was pinching her own breasts Mom looked at her, as Marge
unashamed, as somehow we had become unashamed as
well, knelt in front of Mom, and we on the side, and Mom's
hand accidentally brushed Marge's breast, the nipples hard
and ready for love; and then Mom accidentally touched my
penis which was harder than it had ever been, and the
accidentally turned to on purpose.
As I say, it was Christmas or close enough to it. And
afterwards there were many things to talk about, but right
now I put my hand to my Mom's left breast; she was not
wearing a bra; her nipple was hard; I feared I had gone too
far, and with some pain, looked up to her face as she started
stroking my hard on and felt my gentle smooth warm balls,
and she was smiling at me, and I helped her pull her blouse
off. .....
It was a pretty wonderful Christmas that year. We gave
each other ourselves. What more can a person give? We had
love and each other and we did just fine and got to not
missing Dad pretty quickly.
Oh yes, for Christmas Eve, when we explored each other
more than we ever had before, it snowed huge amounts.
Christmas carolers were singing in the streets. We, bro and
sis and mom and I were on the deep piled carpet by the
Christmas tree in the glow of the merry Christmas lights; we
were naked and kissing and feeling and preparing to fuck
for the first time our mom and each other; we were safe and
happy and free, and those are, I think, pretty good things to
be; hey, this rhyme is free.